43 and Just Getting Started: Reinvention, Writing & Becoming an Author

September 28, 2026

43 and Just Getting Started: Why It’s Never Too Late to Become Who You Were Supposed to Be

Today, I am 43 years old.

There was a time when I thought 43 would look very different.

I assumed that by this age, life would have settled into something predictable. Career established. Questions answered. Direction determined. The great uncertainty of becoming yourself would have quietly disappeared somewhere in your thirties.

Apparently, nobody informed my life of this plan.

Instead, I turned 43 in the middle of one of the greatest periods of reinvention I have ever experienced.

I am a published author.

I have two novels in the world: Inheritance of Silence and House of Windows.

I have more manuscripts written.

More stories developing.

More publishing possibilities unfolding.

And perhaps most importantly, I have finally stopped believing that I am late.

We Spend Too Much Time Worrying About the Timeline

There is an invisible timeline many of us carry around.

By this age, you should have accomplished this.

By that age, you should own that.

Your career should look a certain way.

Your relationships should look a certain way.

Success should have arrived already.

And if your life doesn't resemble whatever imaginary schedule you've constructed, it becomes incredibly easy to look around and wonder:

What did I do wrong?

I've asked myself that question.

More than once.

But 43-year-old me has a different question:

What if I wasn't late at all?

What if everything that happened before this moment—the victories, mistakes, heartbreaks, absurdities, detours, failures, friendships, endings, and unexpected beginnings—wasn't delaying the story?

What if it was giving me something to write about?

Becoming an Author Changed the Way I Understand My Past

Writing has an interesting way of reorganizing your memories.

Things that once felt meaningless suddenly become material.

A conversation from fifteen years ago becomes dialogue.

A place you haven't visited in decades becomes a setting.

A person you barely remember inspires a character.

An emotion you couldn't explain at 25 becomes something you can finally articulate at 43.

That realization changed the way I think about my own timeline.

I couldn't have written some of these books at 23.

Technically, perhaps.

Emotionally?

Absolutely not.

I hadn't lived enough yet.

I hadn't failed enough.

I hadn't loved enough.

I hadn't lost enough.

I hadn't laughed at enough inappropriate moments.

And I certainly hadn't accumulated enough completely ridiculous experiences to create some of the characters now wandering around the Dunnamverse.

Life was still collecting the material.

Inheritance of Silence Changed Everything

When Inheritance of Silence was published, something shifted.

A story that had existed privately became something other people could hold.

Read.

Interpret.

Discuss.

That alone was extraordinary.

But publishing the book also forced me to confront something I had spent years doing:

underestimating what might happen if I actually committed to the work.

The book began receiving recognition.

Readers began responding.

Opportunities began appearing.

New conversations started.

And suddenly the question wasn't whether I could become an author.

I already had.

The question became:

What am I going to do with it?

My answer was simple.

Write another book.

Then another.

And apparently another.

Then Came House of Windows

Publishing House of Windows reinforced something I desperately needed to understand.

One book can feel like an accomplishment.

Two books begin to feel like a career.

And a growing catalogue?

That begins to look like something much larger.

The stories continued multiplying.

Some became serious.

Some became strange.

Some became dark.

Some became hilarious.

Some seemingly arrived in my imagination solely to cause problems.

Eventually, I stopped looking at them as unrelated manuscripts and started recognizing the larger creative world forming around them.

The Dunnamverse was taking shape.

And somewhere in that process, my definition of success changed.

Success Doesn't Always Arrive With Trumpets

We tend to imagine success as one enormous moment.

The contract.

The award.

The bestseller list.

The phone call.

The announcement.

The giant opportunity that suddenly divides life into before and after.

Sometimes that happens.

But I'm learning that success is usually quieter.

It's finishing another chapter when nobody is waiting for it.

Submitting the manuscript even though rejection is possible.

Entering the competition.

Sending the email.

Building the website.

Showing up to the event.

Learning the business.

Correcting mistakes.

Advocating for your work.

Hearing "no" and eventually deciding to ask somebody else.

Success is often accumulation.

Tiny decisions made repeatedly until one day you look around and realize:

Oh. I built something.

Reinvention Is Not Failure

This may be the biggest lesson I'm carrying into 43.

Changing direction doesn't mean the previous direction was wasted.

Starting again doesn't mean you failed.

Discovering another version of yourself doesn't invalidate the person you were before.

Human beings are allowed to evolve.

Careers can change.

Dreams can change.

Priorities can change.

You can discover something at 40 that you didn't understand about yourself at 30.

You can become passionate about something you barely considered at 20.

And yes, you can build something entirely new while everyone else assumes you're supposed to be settling down.

There is no committee coming to tell you that you're too old to begin.

And if there is, I have several manuscripts I'd be delighted to drop on their desk.

So Here I Am at 43

Not finished.

Not settled.

Not entirely certain where all of this goes.

But moving.

There are manuscripts awaiting decisions.

There are stories waiting for publication.

There are competitions and opportunities still unfolding.

There are characters demanding books I haven't written yet.

There are possibilities I couldn't have imagined even a year ago.

And somewhere beyond everything I currently know is probably another opportunity I haven't encountered yet.

That doesn't scare me the way it once would have.

Because I've stopped requiring myself to know the ending before I'm willing to begin the chapter.

Writers should know better than anyone:

Sometimes the story surprises you.

If You Think You're Too Late

Maybe you're 43.

Maybe you're 53.

Maybe you're 63.

Maybe you're 27 and somehow already convinced everyone else received instructions for adulthood that were accidentally omitted from your package.

Here's what I know:

You cannot change when you started.

But you have enormous influence over whether you continue.

Write the book.

Apply for the job.

Start the business.

Take the class.

Submit the manuscript.

Make the ridiculous thing.

Ask the question.

Walk through the door.

Allow yourself to be terrible at something new long enough to become good at it.

Most importantly, stop treating your age as evidence against your potential.

The calendar measures time.

It does not measure possibility.

Chapter 43

So, what do I want from 43?